As If By Divine Ordinance
by vir-adahlen
Summary: Aziraphale falls asleep on Crowley's couch. Yearning ensues.
1. Chapter 1

It was nearly unbearable, the brush of Aziraphale's body on his.

It had been a normal evening, as normal as any evening shared between an angel and a demon could be. Aziraphale and Crowley found themselves sitting on Crowley's couch in the late evening, talking and laughing and planning and reminiscing about something they'd forget in the morning, something certainly fueled by the 6 empty bottles of wine lying discarded at the floor beneath them. It was unusual for Aziraphale to make house calls for a demon, but there was the rare chance that Crowley could convince him to come 'round, with the promise of a story about his most recent bartered blessing and his favorite order from the Thai place down the street.

The sun had long since set beyond the trees when Aziraphale got up from the couch to set aside an empty bottle. Crowley watched him as he walked across the room, unsteady from the wine. Crowley smiled, stretching his long arms out across the couch. When the angel returned, he did a rather poor job of settling himself back down, and in a moment that might have paused time itself, Aziraphale stumbled over himself, falling gracelessly onto Crowley's outstretched body. His head landed softly on the demon's chest.

A fist clenched around Crowley's heart.

His lips were so close to Aziraphale's face, separately by mere inches, or maybe centimeters, or quite possibly millimeters. He could think of nothing else. How long Aziraphale stayed there, Crowley did not know. What he did know is that whatever the human measure of distance was, he could think of no miracle in all of heaven or hell that would ever let him cross it. They had been this close before. Yes, they had been this close hundreds of times before, and Crowley stiffened in the exact same way each time. As if every muscle in his body was locked by some divine ordinance. As if touching Aziraphale would be like touching holy water itself.

Aziraphale hiccuped. His body jumped upward, and his forehead brushed against Crowley's lips so softly he thought he could have imagined it.

"Sorry," Aziraphale said through another hiccup. "You must forgive me, I haven't gotten this drunk in years."

"That's alright, angel," Crowley breathed out, but just barely. His chest had tightened so quickly and heavily that he was surprised anything could escape his body at all. He sat upright and still, doing all he could not to think about the feeling that was dancing on his lips.

"Just not as fun, you know," Aziraphale continued. "Not without you."

"Ah, that can't be true," Crowley said softly, his whole body taut, like the spine of a book that had never been opened in all of history.

Aziraphale had not moved. He yawned, bringing his hand to rest softly by his head on Crowley's chest.

"Funny, I never quite understood why humans fall asleep on their couches until just this moment," Aziraphale said, shifting his body even deeper into Crowley's. The angel closed his eyes.

"Oh, come on," Crowley said, feeling the words spill out of him without processing them. Now that Aziraphale's weight was on him, he could hardly bear to think about what would happen if he got up. And at the same time, he felt trapped, bound – impossibly so. It was all impossible. "Out of all the heavenly beds in the world, you're falling asleep here?"

"You really are quite comfortable," Aziraphale said, his eyes still shut, unreadable. "Did you miracle a pillow out of nowhere?"

"I didn't."

"Just your body?"

"Just my body, angel."

"Hm."

Aziraphale fell silent. Crowley's arm was getting stiff now, hovering just above Aziraphale's slouched body. He bit his lip, and the taste of blood cut through his mouth, metallic and sharp. He couldn't remember the last time he bled. Crowley braced himself, and then let his arm fall naturally, landing gently on the angel's shoulder.

Crowley's heart fluttered. This was fine, yes? How many times had he grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulder, pulling him out of whatever inanely dangerous situation he found himself in? People bump shoulders all the time. Yes, this was fine. It didn't hurt at all.

The silence was broken only by bugs chattering outside. Crowley looked across the room. The street lights were making strange patterns on the wall, and a breeze was blowing through the open window, catching the curtains. He considered wildly for a moment that he should get up, brush Aziraphale off, and go close the window before bugs came in. That he should tell Aziraphale that he should be off, that maybe he'd see him next year. Or maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he couldn't ever see him again.

But when he looked down at the man resting gently on his chest, whatever had been gripping his body so tightly before let go of him entirely.

Crowley closed his eyes and leaned forward, his heart beating out of his chest. Aziraphale must have felt it, and he gripped Crowley's jacket tighter, desperately. It might have been eons, or maybe minutes, or perhaps just milliseconds, but in the blackness, the distance between them was finally closed. Crowley's lips pressed against Aziraphale's forehead, real this time, and earnest. Crowley felt the angel's smile before he saw it, a holy burning, shining straight into his heart. He opened his eyes to see Aziraphale's nose crinkled up happily against him.

Crowley could only imagine what it felt like when two galaxies first collided together – he had been banished from the heavens for a long time by then – but he reckoned it might have felt a little like what was going on in his body. He brought his hand to Aziraphale's cheek, holding him tight against his heart. He had been lucky enough to be in the presence of an angel's smile hundreds of times before, but an angel smiling into his chest, his hand curled into the folds of his jacket? His own lips on his forehead, his hands combing through the angel's soft curls? He could barely breathe. He could barely think. It was indescribable, it was inexpressible, it was unspeakable, it was – Crowley laughed into Aziraphale's hair when he realized what word the angel would use to describe it.

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked softly.

"Nothing, angel," Crowley said, his lips still brushing lightly against Aziraphale's forehead.

"Stay here, will you? Like this?"

"Yes," Crowley said, closing his eyes. "Of course, angel."


	2. Chapter 2

It was nearly unbearable, the brush of Crowley's body on his.

What Aziraphale had intended to be a very normal evening in had turned into a decidedly abnormal evening out, one that couldn't be considered normal by any stretch of the imagination, not that Aziraphale hadn't tried his best to make it so. While others might assume that the meeting of an angel and a demon was the issue at hand, that part was actually perfectly all right in Aziraphale's book — his relationship with Crowley was, after all, something he had already had 6,000 years to come to terms with. No, what was so abnormal about this evening was the location of their meeting.

Aziraphale never visited Crowley's apartment. Well, not quite never, but he was careful to keep the number of hours he spent inside the modern flat behind the door with the snake knocker statistically insignificant in the grand scheme of things. On the rare chances that he did visit, he had a hard time shaking the fear that he was leaving behind a stain on everything he touched, as if he had just walked in from a storm after having forgotten an umbrella, or he was covered in wet paint in a shade that demons particularly despised. On the especially bad days, he felt as if his body was dripping holy water itself, utterly untouchable in every sense.

Aziraphale knew what kind of trace Crowley left in his bookshop. And while the angel couldn't imagine his shop without his presence anymore, he was lucky Gabriel never stuck around long enough to find out that he didn't actually stock the Jeffrey Archer books that he claimed were causing the supposedly evil aura. How could Aziraphale know Crowley's superiors would be as unobservant when it came to detecting his own trace? And this apartment was so clean, so bare. Crowley would have nothing to use for an excuse. He would have nowhere to hide.

But Aziraphale's worries melted away quicker tonight, somehow. It had been a long time since he had seen Crowley, and he was being treated to wine and a sticky rice dish from the marvelous Thai place down the street — which Aziraphale happened to know was a Thursday night only special, so some kind of miracling had to be going on for them to be having it on a Sunday. But he happily held his tongue, smiling as Crowley rambled on and on about his meeting with Johan Galtung up in Norway on the angel's behalf. His voice was nearly as intoxicating as the wine. And while the conversation topic changed and twisted along their whims into the night, the wine stayed consistent. Before Aziraphale knew it, the street lights had come on and he was quite drunk.

And perhaps more importantly, he was quite unwilling to sober himself up. Something felt so good about being here, being like this with Crowley. Aziraphale drank the last dregs from the wine bottle he was holding and then stood up, crossing the room to look for a new one. The night breeze blew in from the open window.

"My dear, do you know where—" Aziraphale began, but the rest of the words died in his throat as he turned back around.

The way Crowley had stretched his body out on the couch in his absence was altogether overwhelming. The back of Aziraphale's neck grew hot, and a thought came to mind, a thought that often liked to occupy his brain despite his desperate attempts to push it away. The wine was not helping. Oh, how he envied humans. How they could touch each other without the weight of the world collapsing on them. He didn't want to sit next to Crowley on the couch anymore. No, he wanted to face him, to part his thighs on either side of him, to feel his legs tighten beneath him—

Well, Aziraphale thought, looking down to hide the blush that was inevitably crawling up his face. He straightened the cuffs on his shirt. There went two deadly sins.

He never should have gotten up from the couch. Better yet, he never should have come to Crowley's apartment. Or even better yet, he never should have bloody spoken with him on the Garden wall at the beginning of it all. What was God playing at, anyways? Giving angels free will? And more importantly, what was Crowley playing at? His hand draped across the back of the couch, his eyes watching him make his way back over, his lips slightly parted — and then breaking into the most beautiful smile Aziraphale had ever seen?

The edge of the couch appeared sooner than Aziraphale expected, his mind thoroughly occupied elsewhere, and he realized far too late that the wine was causing him to stumble quite a bit more than he was accounting for.

If Aziraphale had the ability to stop time, he would have in that moment. But he didn't, and so he fell onto the couch, his head landing softly on Crowley's chest.

Aziraphale was breathless, scrambling to bring his body upright and trying not to think about the position he found himself in. And then he hiccuped, and his body jumped upward. His forehead brushed against Crowley's lips so softly he thought he could have imagined it.

Fuck.

"Sorry," Aziraphale said through another hiccup, his mind spinning. "You must forgive me, I haven't gotten this drunk in years."

"That's alright, angel," Crowley said, his voice hoarse.

Aziraphale's heart pounded so fiercely at Crowley's answer, he was surprised his whole body didn't jump upward again in response.

"Just not as fun, you know," Aziraphale continued, trying to keep his heartbeat from shaking his voice. "Not without you."

"Ah, that can't be true," Crowley said, his voice only getting softer.

Crowley shifted his body slightly, ever so slightly, and Aziraphale melted deeper into him. He had tried to get up, but it seemed as though his body was set on betraying any scrap of rationality left within him. He was scared — God, he was so scared to be touching Crowley — but now that he was here, he was certain that he'd never been more comfortable in all of his time on heaven or Earth. How that could possibly be true, he didn't know, and he really didn't want to begin to think about. He brought his hand to rest softly by his head on Crowley's chest.

"Funny, I never quite understood why humans fall asleep on their couches until just this moment," Aziraphale said. He glanced up at Crowley, who was staring determinedly across the room.

"Oh, come on," Crowley said, still looking fixedly away from him. Aziraphale could count his eyelashes. "Out of all the heavenly beds in the world, you're falling asleep here?"

Aziraphale blushed. Crowley's eyes shifted downwards, and the angel shut his eyes quickly. He wasn't sure the feeble heart beating inside his chest wouldn't simply burst if Crowley met his gaze in that moment.

"You really are quite comfortable," Aziraphale said, his eyes shut tight. "Did you miracle a pillow out of nowhere?"

"I didn't."

"Just your body?"

"Just my body, angel."

"Hm."

Aziraphale wanted to say more, much more, much much more, but the low hum was all he could get out. Crowley fell silent too. Aziraphale felt Crowley's breathing grow shaky, and then the soft weight of his arm came to rest on his shoulder.

How desperately Aziraphale wished that this was normal, that this wasn't scaring him to Heaven and to Hell and then all the way back again. That he really meant it, that he could settle his mind and fall asleep here. But he couldn't, not yet, and maybe not ever. They had been this close several times before, all of which were accidents — or more accurately, they had both unspokenly agreed to pretend that these times were accidents. And yet there was always a distance that remained. Aziraphale longed to cross it, ached for it, but he wasn't sure he ever could. How could he, when it would destroy Crowley? Destroy them both?

Aziraphale's heart sank. It would be best if this night just went into the log as another accident, an old angel's drunken mistake, and be hidden away forever. It was time for him to leave.

But then Crowley's body leaned forward into his, and Aziraphale was bound, wholly and completely. He gripped Crowley's jacket as though his life depended on it. It was an invitation, a plea. A prayer.

And Crowley heard it. His lips pressed against Aziraphale's forehead, real this time, and earnest.

Aziraphale beamed, his face crinkling up into Crowley's chest. He felt warm and bright, and strong and deep, and happy and holy — holy, holy, holy — and a whole host of other words that slipped his mind as Crowley's hand found its way to his hair. Aziraphale curled deeper into Crowley's chest, cupping his hand to his cheek. Each brush of his skin felt like a galaxy bursting into being in the night sky — well, almost, anyhow. Crowley felt better.

And then Crowley laughed, and Aziraphale was ready to forget everything he had ever been told, ready to burn down Heaven itself. How they loved to wax on and on about an angel's smile, but oh were they fools, for they had not felt the way Crowley's body shone with pure radiance when he laughed.

"What is it?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley was still laughing, his lips brushing lightly against Aziraphale's forehead.

"Nothing, angel."

"Stay here, will you?" Aziraphale asked, closing his eyes again. "Like this?"

"Of course, angel."


End file.
